


i heard an unhappy ending (it sort of sounds like you leaving)

by immortalcockroach (juggyjones)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Clarke Griffin-centric, Club Fighter!Bellamy, Established Relationship, F/M, Heavy Angst, Minor Abby Griffin/Marcus Kane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23883595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juggyjones/pseuds/immortalcockroach
Summary: ‘I can’t let myself lose.’‘It’s okay,’ she tells him. ‘We all lose sometimes.’‘What if I can’t stop losing?’ he asks. ‘What if this is the end?’— in which clarke watches bellamy fight two boxing matches with john murphy and fall apart in-between them
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 28
Kudos: 88





	i heard an unhappy ending (it sort of sounds like you leaving)

**Author's Note:**

> i've literally had this idea for years and wouldn't have written it if liya hadn't requested a club fighter!bellamy moodboard. so there you go, folks, here's a piece that combines my two loves, writing and boxing, in a manner that somehow became a _lot_ more angsty than i intended it to be.
> 
> i cried writing the _july_ scene. just to let you know.
> 
> title from _piledriver waltz_ by arctic monkeys.

_january_

‘I believe in you,’ Clarke says.

She can’t bring herself to mean it, but for Bellamy’s sake, she pretends she does.

About two years ago, Clarke Griffin began dating Bellamy Blake, a boxer on the rise. She didn’t know much about boxing, as she was raised to believe the sport was a vile thing. She met Bellamy through a mutual friend and after a few months of being at each other’s throats, they admitted they were too attracted to one another to keep the charade going.

And for a while, it was all going well.

Until the first fight.

Until the first time Clarke watched Bellamy get battered in the ring, nose bleeding and face beat up to the point where he was almost unrecognisable, that she realised it wasn’t as simple as she thought it would be.

It has been over a year and a half since the first fight. Clarke has never gotten used to it.

Now, she gives him a kiss, full on the mouth, before he goes into the ring. She tells him she believes in him and he kisses her full on the mouth, too, holding her so close she feels like she’s about to burst. She feels his heart beat against her own, and they’re not in sync, as they never are before a fight. Hers beats faster than his. She is more afraid than he is, but she keeps it to herself.

Clarke is quiet. She doesn’t let herself get worried, or concerned, as much as she can control it. Bellamy has an unbeaten track record. She has faith in him.

She tells this to herself, over and over again, kissing his lips and his cheeks and his forehead until he says it’s his time to get into the ring, and she lets go.

She kisses him once more. ‘You are going to win.’

Bellamy grins, and it’s honest, vulnerable, simple. ‘Don’t I always?’

‘You do.’ Clarke runs her fingers through his hair; it’s sticky with sweat from warm-ups. ‘Go out there, kick his ass, and come back to me in one piece.’

When he kisses her, it’s full of promises, and Clarke lets herself believe in them.

He pulls back moments after that. Clarke goes to take her seat, in the very front of the audience, as close to the ring as possible. Raven Reyes, one of the people he most often spars with, is sitting on her one side, and Octavia, his sister, on her other. Clarke feels safe, and supported, and understood. These women love Bellamy as much as she does, even if for different reasons.

John “the Cockroach” Murphy comes on first, and the audience goes wild. All Clarke can feel is chills, and terror, because Murphy is as wild as they go. She knows enough about Bellamy to know that he’s big on the technique, the rules, the proper and honourable way of defeating your opponent to know that Murphy, who is all the things Bellamy isn’t, is going to be a challenge. Murphy is dirty, as below the belt as allowed, and he has no honour in the way his hands hit the target.

Clarke is worried. Raven is, too, based on the fact she’s cursing at Murphy before Bellamy even comes out. Octavia is the only one still holding onto her senses, telling the other two how Murphy is pompous and egoistic and Bellamy should easily find a way to knock him out, if he follows what his team have been working on.

When the familiar music comes on, Clarke’s heart skips a beat. She turns her head just like everyone does, waiting until she sees the familiar face walk out of the door, full of immense pride and ego, almost unrecognisable to her – she has always stated that if Bellamy wasn’t a boxer, he should’ve been an actor. A smile creeps onto her face and pride fills her heart, and she knows that, no matter the outcome, there is no way she wouldn’t be proud of him.

His face is all one big self-assured smirk, chin held high and shoulders pulled back as he struts towards the ring, but he still smiles when he catches her eyes. _Don’t worry,_ his face is saying, _I’ve got this._

Clarke smiles back. She makes herself believe he’s telling the truth, because anything else would hurt.

Seeing him walk into the ring never gets easier.

She believes in him, because what’s the alternative?

‘Murphy is too lanky to be a good opponent,’ Octavia says. ‘He’s too full of himself.’

‘Never underestimate a lanky white boy,’ Raven counters. ‘That ego gives them more energy than it should.’

‘Bellamy is going to win this one,’ is all Clarke says, the only one out of the three a novice in the world of boxing, and the only one trying really hard to believe in her own statements.

Raven laughs, but it’s soothing. ‘He better. It would be embarrassing if he lost.’

‘If he loses, he’ll lose fair and square.’ Octavia gives Raven a look that’s supposed to mean something, but Clarke feels a little too anxious for Bellamy to interpret it. ‘My brother isn’t a wuss. If he loses, it’ll be because Murphy is better.’

‘How about he just doesn’t lose?’

‘He better not,’ Octavia agrees, and Bellamy enters the ring.

He looks the way he always does, and Clarke feels something in the bottom of her stomach; pride and fear are quite the same thing, sometimes. His hair is tousled from the makeout session they’ve had minutes ago, cheeks flushed and muscles pumped from the workout-session – even though, sometimes, Clarke can’t tell what’s from working out and what from making out.

Bellamy “the Delinquent” Blake throws the first punch. Clarke flinches and listens to Raven cheer him on, Octavia shouts improvements, and their voices mix with Pike coaching him and everybody in the audience screaming their lungs out. 

At the end of the first round, Bellamy sits on the stool with Pike pouring water over him, and he looks at Clarke. 

She smiles at him – and hopes it’s enough to keep him going. 

‘Murphy’s more animalistic than I anticipated,’ Octavia says. 

‘He _is_ an animal,’ Raven says.

Clarke says nothing. She watches Bellamy and he watches her and she sees the power, desire, ambition, _hunger_ in his eyes that sometimes makes her a little afraid. 

He is beautiful, but he is a beautiful beast. In the ring, he is the Delinquent. 

Sometimes, Clarke wonders which version of him is truer to his heart, and she doesn’t have an answer.

In the other corner, Murphy is raging at his coach, Kane. His teeth are bared and veins popping all over his skin, and his deep-set eyes make him look like a dead man fighting his last battle. 

He is the one to throw the first punch of the second round, and he is the first to draw blood. 

Bellamy’s nose breaks. Clarke hears it. He stumbles, into the ropes, and puts his hands up just as Murphy throws a hook. He gives back a jab, but he opens up his guard, and Murphy slides in with an uppercut, and a jab to his guts. 

The round ends, and Bellamy searches for Clarke’s eyes, and it takes him a heartbeat too long. 

‘He’s losing this,’ she says. It might be the first thing she’s said all night; she isn’t sure.

Next to her, Octavia shifts in her seat, leg crossed over another, bouncing restlessly. ‘He’s gotten himself out of worse horseshit.’

‘He can barely stand on his feet.’

Raven takes hold of Clarke’s hand, and when she looks at her, Raven’s face is kind, even if worried. ‘I know this is difficult for you, but he’s always bounced back. You have to believe in him.’

‘I do,’ she says, and it’s the truth.

She’s just worried it’s not enough. 

In the ring, Bellamy spits blood. Pike shouts instructions at him, and when his eyes meet Clarke’s, they’re almost desperate. 

_Get him,_ she mouths. 

He nods. 

Pike gives him light slaps on each cheek, and the bell dings. Bellamy gets on his feet and he bares his teeth, just the way Murphy does, and Clarke sees in the hunch of his shoulders, the bend in his knees, that he’s ready to do whatever it takes to take the Cockroach down. 

‘See,’ Raven says, ‘he’s back.’

When the bell chimes next, Murphy has had his seconds counted, but managed to get on his feet. There’s blood all over the ring, both sides with cuts and bruises, and the sound of skin tearing is the one Clarke thinks she’ll never forget. 

Each time he sits down, Bellamy looks more worn out, more tired. Clarke doesn’t know how long he’ll last. But Murphy is shaking, looking worse for the wear, and it gives her a little hope. 

It’s the fifth round when Bellamy falls, and gets back up, and she has never seen two men more bloodthirsty. He doesn’t look for her anymore, and he doesn’t look any less animalistic than Murphy. 

Clarke’s own heart beats faster than she thought it possible. She holds her breath until her lungs start to ache, and when a hook blows into Bellamy’s jaw, she can almost hear it snap. But it doesn’t; Bellamy gets himself off the floor and is on Murphy within moments, and both fighters are tired, and slower, and exhausted, and the win is going to be less about the better man and more about the last man standing. 

She cheers on, unable to contain herself. He grins at her, eight rounds in, teeth red with blood. 

Murphy falls on the floor in the ninth round. It’s supposed to be the end. 

In the last counted second, he gets up, and demolishes Bellamy with a series of jabs and hooks, one last uppercut that launches Bellamy into the ropes. 

It’s a knock-out. 

Bellamy falls to the floor, and doesn’t get back up. The referee raises Murphy’s hand, who immediately afterwards helps Bellamy get back up, whispering things Clarke can’t hear. She sits in her seat, unable to move, only slightly aware of Octavia and Raven raging at her sides. 

When Bellamy’s eyes find hers for the last time, she can see how defeated he is. 

It’s the first time in his professional career that he has lost. 

_april_

Clarke is sitting in a coffee shop, sipping a white mocha latte, wondering what the hell is happening in her life. Next to her, Harper McIntyre is talking about her newlyweds stories, and Clarke finds it difficult to pay attention. 

Her love has been holed up in a gym for the past three months, sulking, boxing through his pride and hurt. 

‘Clarke?’

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘What were you saying?’

Harper smiles, as if it doesn’t matter that Clarke wasn’t listening, and it makes her feel like shit. ‘I asked how you and Bellamy are doing.’

‘Oh. We’re good. He’s just busy with training.’

It shouldn’t be this easy to lie to your friends. 

Harper inquires, expresses concern over his wellbeing since the match with Murphy, and Clarke fights the sinking feeling in her stomach. She knows her friend means well, but when they pay for their drinks and Clarke gets into her car, she can’t help but feel relief. 

Things haven’t been good. Things have, in fact, been absolute shit, and it takes a lot of control not to bang her hands on the steering wheel in the middle of Arcadia City Centre. 

A message from Jasper Jordan, Bellamy’s manager, pops up on her phone screen. She drives to the gym without a second thought. 

Much like she thought, Bellamy is in the heart of the gym, sparring with Nathan Miller in the ring. Clarke watches for a few minutes, letting herself take a few moments where she can pretend things are the same as they always have been. 

Bellamy lunges, more often than Miller does, and it looks rougher than Clarke remembers it being. Even from the distance, she can see the animalistic hunger in Bellamy’s eyes, the one that hasn’t been satisfied his whole life, only intensified when he found himself at Murphy’s feet. His jabs and hooks are less precise than before, but their strength is immense, and every time they collide with any part of Miller’s body, it’s a sound full of something Clarke doesn’t recognise. 

Miller’s torso is full of bruises. Sometimes, Clarke tries to figure out why he keeps letting Bellamy take his rage out on him. She accepts it’s something she’ll never understand. 

Boxing is something she’ll never understand. 

When Bellamy sees her, he turns his back to her. The movement has become so common that Clarke doesn’t question it anymore. 

‘Jasper texted me because you’re not answering him,’ she tells Bellamy, once he’s walked over. 

‘I don’t have my phone on me.’

‘You can’t just expect people not to need to contact you.’

‘They know where to find me. I never said I’d be available for everyone.’

Clarke doesn’t say he isn’t available for _anyone._ Instead, she watches him reach in the corner of the ring and grab a bottle of water. His body is filled with as many bruises as Miller’s, and she knows Miller, without a particular advantage handed to him on a silver plate by Bellamy, wouldn’t be able to inflict them. Some of them blend into his tattoos; Clarke doesn’t even know what half of them mean. 

She used to find them attractive. Now, whenever a new one randomly pops up, she thinks they’re just a shitty way of dealing with life. 

Bellamy sets down the bottle. ‘Did you need anything? I need to get back to training.’

‘Murphy accepted the rematch.’

He looks at her, as if trying to see if she’s joking, then nods, curtly.

That’s all. He walks away without a word, shouting at Miller to get his ass back in the ring, and get ready for another round. 

Clarke leaves before either of them see her cry. She does that in the safety and comfort of her car, the only thing in her life that hasn’t been tainted by Bellamy’s recent behaviour, as she has to watch him lose himself to the fight every single night when he climbs into their bed at odd hours of the night. 

She hardly recognises him anymore, and it hurts. 

When he voices these concerns to Octavia, who’s training in the same gym but a different part of it, the girl doesn’t even stop throwing blows at the punching bag as they talk. 

‘It’s just Bellamy,’ Octavia tells her. ‘He’s a sore loser, but he’ll come around.’

‘It doesn’t feel like it.’

Octavia boxes, huffs and puffs, and tells Clarke to hold the punching bag still. When she’s finished, the hunger in her eyes has subsidised a little, but it’s still the same one that Clarke falls asleep next to. 

The Blake siblings are similar in all the ways, even the bad ones. 

‘Trust me.’ Octavia does one final roundhouse kick, so strong that Clarke’s arms shake as she holds the punching bag. ‘There’s nothing you can do except let him have his time.’

‘What if he loses again?’

‘Bellamy has never lost twice.’

‘But what if he does?’

‘For your sake, Griffin, he better doesn’t.’

Later, when Bellamy comes home and kisses her for the first time in a while, it’s nothing like the tender kisses he’d usually pester her with. It’s hungry and it’s desperate, as if he’s holding onto her for dear life. 

Clarke pushes him away, and walks out of the bed. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

All he does is turn his back to her, and falls asleep. 

The kitchen is cold and so is her shower, and she realises she’s been feeling like shit a lot more than usual. She snacks on crackers, far away from Bellamy’s snoring, thinking about everything that’s been happening, and she realises that the person sleeping in her bed is a lot different than the person she loves. 

Losing from Murphy destroyed him. Like Octavia told her, like Raven told her, like Pike told her, like Jasper told her, Bellamy is the type of person that takes losing harsher than an average person. He throws himself into becoming better, no matter what it takes, and he becomes obsessed with it until he reaches the point where he feels like he’s good enough. 

It’s been three months, and things haven’t changed. Everyone around them is leaving him be, even as he closes himself off. He becomes a different person, almost, and everyone apart from her has experienced this already – she’s the only one who doesn’t know how to deal with this Bellamy. 

Kissing him felt as if she were standing in the ring, his face bloodied, and his lips touching his broken ones. It felt as if she were the victory he is so hungry for. 

Clarke doesn’t want to be another thing to be won.

_may_

When they booked a holiday to visit Clarke’s mother in Polis, Bellamy losing himself to the ring hadn’t crossed her mind. When she told him they should start packing and Bellamy told her that he can’t come, that missing two weeks’ worth of training is something he can’t afford, not with the rematch only months away, she couldn’t even fake the surprise. 

Now, dragging her suitcase as she walks out of the airport, she thinks that maybe what they both need is a break. Two weeks away from one another can only do them good. Bellamy will have no one disrupting his solitude and Clarke will be reminded of what normal life feels like. 

Abby waits for her outside, and pulls her into a hug. 

‘I missed you so much,’ she tells her. 

‘I missed you too, Mom.’

It takes all Clarke’s got not to fall apart in her mother’s arms, but she manages. They get into the car and Abby tells her about her life in Polis, and Clarke welcomes the distraction. 

‘I’ve met someone,’ Abby says. ‘It’s not very serious yet, which is why I haven’t told you before, but he’ll come round for dinner on Friday.’

‘Oh. Okay.’

Clarke stares out of the window and lets herself just breathe for a moment. She isn’t used to change; coming home was supposed to be the opposite. It was coming _home,_ where everything is familiar, where she can live her life with eyes closed and mind elsewhere. 

‘You might know him. Marcus Kane?’

‘John Murphy’s coach?’

‘I think so.’

Life works in mysterious ways, someone said once, and Clarke feels the full magnitude of the statement only now. 

They don’t talk about it any more. They don’t talk about Clarke’s relationship with Bellamy, either, only Clarke can’t tell if that’s because Abby understands there’s something going on, or simply because she doesn’t feel involved in her daughter’s life enough to be privy. 

Either way, Clarke is grateful. 

Once Friday rolls around and the Cockroach’s coach sharing a meal with the Griffin women, the topic finally comes up. 

‘How’s Bellamy?’

‘Good,’ Clarke lies. 

‘I hope the defeat hasn’t put him off.’ Kane’s voice is genuine, and for whatever reason, it stings. 

‘Oh, no, not at all. If anything, it’s been motivating to get better, push harder.’

It’s not a lie; there’s a thin line between dedication and obsession, and Clarke can simply pretend he hasn’t crossed it yet. She can lie to the Cockroach’s coach, she can use this to their advantage, she can help him. 

‘That’s a good thing. I’m glad he hasn’t taken it badly.’

Tension rises. Clarke eats Abby’s gracefully prepared steak and avoids looking at either of the people at the table. She can’t tell if Kane is prodding, or if he’s being genuine. It could be either. 

Clarke’s heart beats the same as it does whenever Bellamy enters the ring, until he’s out of it. These months since his defeat have felt like one long fight in the ring, and she doesn’t even know if they’re on the same side anymore. The lines are too blurred. 

‘These steaks are wonderful, Abby,’ Kane says.

They don’t talk about Bellamy anymore – at least, not while they are all together. When Clarke offers to get the dessert from the basement, Kane decides to help out as Abby begins doing the dishes. 

It’s quiet. It’s cold, too, and Clarke shivers once they’re in the basement.

‘How serious are you and Mom?’

‘I don’t know.’ Kane picks up the tray with the cake, looking at her. ‘It feels good. She makes me happy.’

Clarke picks a bottle out of the wine collection, then takes another one off the rack. ‘Do you make her happy, too?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Don’t hurt her.’

‘I won’t.’ They begin making their way out of the basement, Kane trailing behind her. ‘Clarke, I hope you know this has nothing to do with Bellamy and John.’

It takes her a moment to remember that John is the Cockroach’s name. ‘I didn’t think that. But don’t make use of it.’

‘John doesn’t even know about Abby. I’d like to keep it that way.’

Clarke nods. The conversation goes on as they set the table, and she finally lets herself ask about Murphy. 

‘He’s always ready,’ Kane says, and Clarke has a feeling he’s not meaning just his boxing skills.

Later, Clarke gives Bellamy a call. It’s been a week since she’s seen him and they’ve barely spoken. Her old bed is comfortable, even if no longer familiar, the bounce of it nothing like the one she shares with Bellamy. 

Sleeping alone is cold and empty, and Clarke’s heart aches. 

They talk. Bellamy seems to be more relaxed, more like the Bellamy she fell in love with, and her heart aches even more. 

She tells him about Kane and Murphy, and all he says is, ‘Don’t worry, Clarke. I am not going to lose again.’

‘I know you won’t.’

‘You believe in me?’ She hears him smiling. 

‘Of course I do. I always have.’

‘I needed to hear that.’

Clarke presses the phone to her heart, eyes closed, and hopes that maybe things will be different once the two weeks are up. 

The conversation goes on, and she does notice he’s still a little distant, a little reserved, and maybe the two weeks are just the beginning. 

‘I miss you, Clarke,’ he tells her, softly. ‘I can’t wait for you to come home.’

‘I miss you, too.’ 

She wonders if, once she’s back, she’ll miss him any less.

She doesn’t.

_june_

When Wells Jaha moves into town, Clarke is on the verge of falling apart. Bellamy, aside from actual sleeping, lives in the gym. She hardly sees him anymore; she is hardly in a relationship anymore. She waits and waits for him to come around, and there are moments when he is _almost_ back, but it never lingers for more than just moments. 

Clarke is lonely. Her heart and her home are the one person who keeps distancing himself from her. 

None of her friends understand. None of his friends understand, either. 

She doesn’t blame them. 

Wells is someone who has seen her become the person she is now and participated in it more than even her own mother. It shouldn’t be a surprise that as soon as they’re done putting the last of his pre-owned furniture into the apartment that they sit down, he wants to know what’s happening. 

He doesn’t ask. When he says instead is, ‘We’re going to get a drink.’

Not too long after that, they are well on their way of getting drunk, reminiscing about old times; the idea of little Clarke and little Wells swearing with their little pinkies to never let go of one another is absurd, at times. 

Not now. 

‘You’re a mess,’ Wells tells her. ‘You look like shit.’

‘I miss home.’

In her slightly intoxicated state, she can’t tell if she means home, as in Bellamy, or home, as in her childhood home. Somehow, they are not that different. 

‘How’s the nursing job going?’

‘It’s fine. Busy, most of the time. Occupies my time just as well.’

The statement lingers in the air as both friends comprehend the meaning between the lines. Wells puts his glass away, takes her hand instead. 

She missed her best friend. No one really measures up to him, and no one ever will, and she loves him like no one else. 

‘Why does your time need occupying?’

It spills out no different than a flood. He listens without a word, holding her hand as she opens her heart for the first time, lets go of the restrictions. She admits how lost and useless she feels, how Bellamy doesn’t let her help him, and how everyone just lets him shut himself away and she can’t take it. 

‘Clarke,’ Wells begins. ‘Since when do you let other people’s treatment of you determine your worth?’

‘I don’t. That’s not it.’

‘Is it not?’

‘I can’t help him. He’s not letting me.’

‘Which is not your fault. It’s his choice to keep you out.’

Clarke understands. She empties the last of her wine and puts the glass next to Wells’s, feeling more sober and more awake and more aware than in the past months. 

‘I can’t go on like this.’

Wells nods, because he knows the answer. Clarke doesn’t, not yet. 

She realises it right before she leaves the apartment, and it breaks her, a little. 

_july_

Clarke is about to leave the hospital after her 12-hour shift when her phone chimes with a text from Wells. She ends up grabbing three coffees, the way each of them likes, and drives to Wells’s apartment complex. 

Wells gets the Irish coffee, Clarke keeps the Long Black for herself, and the Vienna goes to Raven, who is sitting on the couch. 

Three and a half years ago, it was Wells who introduced her to Raven, his friend he met at a convention of engineers and mechanics in Arcadia. Almost three years ago, Raven introduced her to Bellamy. 

‘Did you break up with him?’

‘No,’ Clarke says. ‘I’m taking a break from him.’

‘He’s a mess.’

‘So was Clarke,’ Wells pitches in, ‘before she came to stay here.’

Silence. Clarke just watched, not knowing what to say. 

‘Clarke,’ Raven says, ‘he’s losing it.’

‘You all let him spiral downwards and said it’s how he gets.’

She’s not defending herself. She’s sitting on the couch she’s been sleeping on for the past two weeks when she couldn’t take it anymore, when seeing her boyfriend fall victim to madness became too much. 

There was nothing she could’ve done to prevent it. It’s the people he considers his family that never stopped him, and let her be the only one. 

But the look on Raven’s face tells her it’s different. 

The brunette shakes her head. ‘It’s never been like this. Since you left, he hasn’t let the gym, Miller thinks he can’t bear going to a home without you. The match is all he can think of.’

Clarke gulps. ‘I know.’

She sees him, even if he’s not here. She sees him asleep next to her, and when his eyes are closed, it’s the only times he’s looked peaceful since they closed in the ring, all those months ago. 

‘He’s been like this for months.’

Raven finishes her coffee. ‘If he keeps going like this, he’ll lose again.’

They all know what that would mean, even if not exactly. 

‘Clarke,’ pleads Raven, ‘talk to him.’

It’s a decision that is all too easy to make. Clarke finds herself at the gym only hours later, not having slept in over twenty-four hours. The gym smells familiar, like sweat and dust and gym equipment, and she realises she’s almost forgotten this is what Bellamy smells like, too. 

This is his space. She doesn’t belong here. 

Clarke finds Miller before she finds Bellamy, and he looks both relieved and distraught at the sight of her. 

He greets her with a fistbump, the way Miller does. ‘Are you here to talk to Bellamy? He’s gone for a walk, but he should be back soon.’

‘How’s he doing?’

Miller hesitates. ‘Not good. He barely talks to me anymore. The stupid match is all he can think about. He’s pushing himself to his limits and beyond. It’s...It’s bad.’

‘How bad?’

‘He’s barely a person anymore.’

Bellamy walks into the hall a moment later, and Clarke sees the truth in Miller’s statement. 

More tattoos are scattered over his body, too far for her to be able to tell what they are. She recognises the flowers for Aurora, the gloves, the butterflies for Octavia; his body is a canvas for his story, and Clarke feels odd not knowing what’s currently being written on it. 

He looks battered, too. Shaggy hair and a rough beard cover his face, and he slouches as he walks into the ring, not looking anywhere but in front of himself. He’s more built than before, but his muscles are raw, and they don’t look healthy enough. 

‘Miller,’ he calls. ‘Get up.’

‘Bellamy,’ is all Miller says in return.

Clarke clenches her teeth when he looks at her. His eyes are emptied bar the raw hunger in them, and it scares her more than seeing Murphy in the ring ever did. 

‘I thought you wanted nothing to do with me,’ Bellamy says. 

She stays firm in her place. ‘That’s not true. I said I can’t stand seeing you destroy yourself.’

‘I’m not destroying myself. I’m making sure I can win.’

‘Miller, can you give us a moment? Thanks.’

They’re left alone. Clarke feels kenophobic all of a sudden, the emptiness of the gym hall closing in on her. It’s only her and him and she can almost feel him, despite the distance. 

He climbs out of the ring. Walks over, taking his time. 

Up close, he is even more terrifying. Miserable; lost to the fight he’s been fighting within himself. 

Clarke’s voice is a whisper. ‘Bellamy.’

He stays quiet. His eyes don’t move from hers, not even when her hand touches his cheek and he leans into it. For a moment, Clarke sees something else in his eyes, but it’s gone too fast. 

‘Why do you let other people’s opinion of you determine your value?’

‘I don’t.’ His eyes flutter as he closes them. ‘I don’t care about what others think.’

‘Who are you killing yourself for, then?’

Bellamy is quiet. She feels the warmth of his face and wants to kiss him so badly, but she knows it will only hurt. No kiss has felt _right_ since he lost from Murphy, and she is starting to question if it ever will. 

He turns his head, takes hold of her hand, and presses his lips to the inside of her palm. 

‘I can’t let myself lose.’

‘It’s okay,’ she tells him. ‘We all lose sometimes.’

‘What if I can’t stop losing?’ he asks. ‘What if this is the end?’

Bellamy holds her hand to his bare chest, right where his heart beats against it. There are tears stinging in her eyes and she lets out a whimper, quieter than the hurricane her heart holds. 

‘It isn’t.’ Her heart beats the same as his own. ‘But even if it is, what does it matter? Nobody will think any less of you. I won’t love you any less.’

Her eyes are closed, and she thinks hst must be, too. They have been closer than this in the past few months, but never so openly, never so raw. Never without shields for one or the other or both. 

‘I have to do this,’ he says, and she hears how sincere it is.

‘I know.’

They don’t say the full truth. Bellamy doesn’t say that if he doesn’t do it, he won’t be able to live with himself, if he’s a loser, he’ll never forgive himself; Clarke doesn’t say that seeing him in so much pain only makes her feel the same, and she can’t take it anymore. 

‘I love you,’ she tells him.

‘I know.’ He kisses the crown of her head and she feels a warm drop in it. His body is warm against hers, his arms feeling like home. ‘I love you, too.’

He can’t choose anything other than the fight. It has devoured him. 

Sometimes love isn’t enough.

_september_

The match is heavily publicised; Bellamy’s face is everywhere. He looks a bit better now, and Raven told Clarke that their conversation did knock some sense into him, but he’s still worlds away from the person Clarke wishes she would see on the billboards. Murphy, on the other hand, looks as dangerous as always, and Clarke understands the primal hunger now – it comes from losing everything or having nothing to lose in the first place. 

Bellamy is the former. Murphy is the latter. 

Nobody knows who will win this one, but Clarke knows that tonight’s outcome is one of the most important things in her life. 

She sits in the front and doesn’t go to Bellamy’s changing room, but neither does Octavia. He’s alone in there, the girls tell her, and she suppresses the wish to go and see him before he comes out. 

Instead, she sits in the front, and waits. 

Murphy comes out first. His face hasn’t changed since the last time, but now there’s pride in it, and Clarke understands that even though he has a lot to lose, he has already won. He has defeated Bellamy once, stole everything he worked so hard for, and there is nothing that Bellamy could ever do to erase that. No matter how great he becomes, how many people he conquers, Murphy’s name will forever be tied to his. 

In that very moment, Clarke finally understands Bellamy. 

He comes out later and he’s just as hungry as Murphy, if not more. The Delinquent is on par with the Cockroach and it’s a match that will be written about. He’s full of rage and self-hatred and the despair to prove himself that’s been eating him up; he’s _dangerous._

The ring doesn’t feel ready for the energy clash that happens once he steps in. 

Bellamy’s eyes find Clarke’s, just like they did all those months ago, and Clarke wonders what he sees in them. 

He looks away. 

‘If he loses this one, it will shatter him,’ Raven says.

‘He’s not losing this one. He can’t afford it,’ Octavia agrees. 

‘He is going to win,’ is all Clarke says. 

This time, she believes it, because she understands Bellamy, and she understands that losing this will mean a lot more than losing another fight, or people’s opinion of him. 

She was wrong. 

Bellamy has fought to be his own man; he has fought from rags to riches to make his name known, to rise from the ruin of his family, to be a person he can be proud of. It’s not about the people, his reputation, or even the people he cares about – it’s about himself, and how he sees himself. 

He can’t be Bellamy Blake if he is forever tied to someone else; when his name comes alongside Murphy’s. 

Both fighters get to their feet; the hall comes to life. 

The bell chimes, and things slow down. Neither Bellamy nor Murphy throw the first blow, instead circulating around one another, waiting, reading. Jabs are thrown, testing the waters on each side, calculating; Clarke has forgotten that this is as much a puzzle as it is a fight. 

Murphy throws the first punch. It doesn’t land; Bellamy blocks it. Throws a counterpunch, a swift left hook. 

The Cockroach stumbles. The audience roars. 

It’s a blur of movement, after that. Bellamy holds his own even if Murphy lands a few punches. By the time the bell signals the end of the round, both look as if they have been awoken – hungry and thirsty for blood. 

Bellamy looks at her again, as Pike pours water into his mouth. He is wild, raging, and Clarke sees in him the man she has fallen in love with. 

_Get him,_ she mouths. 

Bellamy nods, and grins, as much as he can. 

His teeth are bared when the bell chimes again and he is at Murphy’s throat almost immediately. It’s a puzzle, it’s a dance, and it’s a fight for so much more than a title. It’s Bellamy’s sense of self that has been thrown into the mix, and it’s Murphy’s pride that’s on the line, too. 

Both of them have something to lose. Both of them have already lost enough to fight with all they’ve got. 

Clarke is at the edge of her seat. 

Bellamy draws blood first. Murphy spits it out, twitching his jaw. He hunches, tests a few jabs, and lunges with full power. There is little to no technique; it is a brawl, and Bellamy is thrown into the ropes. 

He slashes with an uppercut; Murphy’s head tilts back. He stumbles, Bellamy continues with swift blows to the head, his statement right hook in Murphy’s liver. 

The Cockroach falls. The hall is a living creature. 

The referee counts to seven and Murphy rises to his feet, just as the bell chimes. 

This is the Bellamy that Clarke has never seen before – this is the Bellamy that is willing to do whatever it takes. 

At her side, Raven is feeling the energy Bellamy is radiating. ‘He’s going to get himself killed if he continues like that.’

‘No,’ counters Octavia, ‘he’s going to kill Murphy.’

Round three. There’s no technique on either end. The Delinquent is a dancer who has been thrown to the wolves, and the Cockroach is a wolf who tried to be taught dancing. 

It’s mesmerising. 

Bellamy breaks Murphy’s nose. His own cracks moments later. 

Jab after jab; hook after hook. 

They get their break and they look like warriors retrieved from the battleground. Battered and bruising and broken, but Bellamy’s eyes are ablaze with willpower, and Clarke knows he’ll win.

He does, in round nine. There’s a jab; Murphy stumbles back. Another jab; his guard falls. Left hook, right hook; he falls into the ropes. Jab into the gut, jab into the liver; his body shrivels. He stands up, raises his guard, and Bellamy’s right hook bursts through it. 

Murphy falls to the ground and doesn’t get up again. 

Bellamy’s hand is in the air and moments afterwards, he’s on the floor, helping Murphy to his feet. 

‘Holy shit,’ Raven says.

He looks at Clarke and she _breathes,_ for what feels like the first time since he was in Murphy’s place. 

When he smiles at her, the toothy grin is stained with blood and his lip swollen to three times its size, one of the eyes half shut, the eyebrow above it filled with cuts. But he smiles, and she smiles back. 

They talk, once he’s cleaned up. He looks like a mess and it’ll take some time to heal, but she falls into his arms and they feel like home. 

She wants to kiss him, but doesn’t; not yet. 

‘It doesn’t matter if you lose or you win,’ she tells him. ‘No one can take from you who you are. You’re Bellamy Blake. You’re a fighter. That’s yours, and that will always be yours, whether you have the title or not. Whether someone defeats you or not. It’s yours and it can’t be taken away from you.’

He kisses her, full on the mouth, and she melts into it. Touching him feels like riding a bike, something she can’t forget, and it’s all the magic she has forgotten it was. 

He holds her and doesn’t let go, even after his arms begin to shake and he’s out of breath, and he’s going to crash soon. 

‘I love you,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry for making you feel like I didn’t.’

Clarke kisses his forehead. It’s sticky with cold sweat; he’s burning up. 

‘I’m sorry that I couldn’t tell you what I was going through.’ His thumb runs over her cheekbone, palm opening over her cheek, and she leans into it. ‘I was scared. I didn’t understand.’

‘It’s okay,’ she tells him. ‘I just want you to know that you’re always going to be the person you’ve fought to be. No matter what happens.’

‘Even if I lose.’

‘We all lose, at times.’ She tucks sticky curls behind his ears. He smells like sweat and the gym, even though he’s showered, and she’s finally home again. ‘It’s only human.’

Clarke moves back into their apartment the next week, and things seem to be back in their place again. She learns things about him from a different perspective, a more realistic one, and listens to him tell his story through his tattoos. 

Bellamy swims out of the despair and misery that he was drowning in, and she awaits at the shore. 

Sometimes love isn’t enough – but devotion is.

**Author's Note:**

> not gonna lie, this is one of my favourite fics i've written. i love writing about angsty boxers and their tortured loves, lost and/or crumbling identities, and people who love them still. 
> 
> if you want to request a fic or contact me, just send me an ask on tumblr ([bellarkesgodson](https://bellarkesgodson.tumblr.com/)).


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